Cities of Cain
by Sword of the Shadow
Summary: AU. Slash. It has been said that "where flowers bloom, so does hope." Unfortunately, there are thorns and horrors enough to make up for their beauty.
1. Prologue: Rue

**Cities of Cain**

* * *

"We are a most solitary people, and we live, repelled by one another, in the gray, outcast cities of Cain."

Edward Dahlberg

* * *

Prologue: Rue

" There's rue for you; and here's some for me:

we may call it herb-grace o' Sundays:

O you must wear your rue with a difference."

_Hamlet_ Act IV, Scene V

He clutched at the stems, heedless of any thorns that might be there. He tried to force himself to concentrate, to think, to analyse. Pink catchfly, white bindweed and tuberose, and blue hyacinth, all surrounded by thorn apple leaves. They were thrown together almost haphazardly, their stems knotted together with a long grey ribbon, woven of hemp. It seemed a young girls bouquet of random wildflowers, picked during a walk through a meadow and tied with her hair ribbon.

He knew better.

Despite the partially crushed petals and chaotic arrangement, this was no random gathering of daisies and dandelions. This was deliberate. It was simply a bouquet, but he found himself more terrified than he had ever felt facing Voldemort.

He had crept out of his dormroom, leaving behind his slumbering classmates, and entered the Chamber of Secrets. For four years he had snuck down here a few nights each month, for safety. No one had noticed, or, if they had, they had not said anything. But _he_ knew.

He had spotted the bouquet immediately, the bright colours contrasting sharply with the dark stone in the dimly lit room. It would have been near impossible to miss, actually. Flowers simply did not grow out of the mouth of a decaying skeleton of a centuries old basilisk. But there they were nonetheless, a vibrant blight in the previously semi-sacred hideaway.

Somehow,_he _knew his habits, and, worse, _he_ had found a way to enter his sanctuary.

But what disturbed him most were the hidden meanings.

Catchfly. Snare.

Bindweed. Bonds.

Tuberose. Dangerous pleasure.

Hyacinth. Game, sport.

Thorn apple. Deceitful charms.

Put together, it formed a clear message. _He_ was playing a game, one that _he_ intended to win. He would be seduced, drawn in like the bees that pollinated these flowers until the noose drew tight. Oh, but _he_ would enjoy it so, reveling in the power _he _held, in the control that he would lose. And lose he would. Everything was bound up in hemp, in fate, in inescapable destiny.

He flung the flowers to the floor, watching as they splashed in the ever present stagnant puddles. A few petals swirled lazily on the slimy surface of the water, mocking him.

He howled his misfortune, already planning his answer of basil, bay leaf, and burdock.

* * *

Rue: Disdain  
Catchfly: Snare  
Bindweed: Bonds  
Tuberose: Dangerous pleasure  
Hyacinth: Game, Sport  
Thorn Apple: Deceitful charms  
Basil: Hatred  
Bayleaf: I change but in death.  
Burdock: Touch me not 


	2. Chapter One: Dogrose

Chapter One: Dogrose

"I never promised you a rose garden. I never promised you perfect justice... and I never promised you peace or happiness. My help is so that you can be free to fight for all of these things. The only reality I offer is challenge, and being well is being free to accept it or not at whatever level you are capable. I never promise lies, and the rose-garden world of perfection is a lie."

_I Never Promised You a Rose Garden, _Joanne Greenberg

Harry Potter, age seven and three quarters, stared up at the short man pacing restlessly before him. He was wearing a cloak that covered everything but his head, with skin darkened by the sun, and the strangest eyes that Harry had ever seen. They were yellow. Eyes weren't supposed to be yellow, were they? Everyone he knew had brown or blue. He had green, of course, and not the kind of green that was really more of a blue. His eyes were emerald green. It was just another sign, like the scar on his forehead or the strange occurrences that were drawn to him as a rose reaches towards the sun, that proved he was strange, a freak.

"Are you," he began hesitantly, pausing before gathering courage from deep within himself, "are you going to take me away?" He had dreamed of it often enough, lying in the dark cupboard. He dreamed he was special, that people cared, and, most often, he dreamed that someone would come and rescue him from the Dursleys. They would whisk him a way to a real home, and he would have a real family. Sometimes he pretended he was descended from the gods, like Heracles or Baeldaeg. Sometimes he envisioned that he had powers that no one else did, and that his fairy godmother or some wise old man would take him away to teach him. He had never told anyone of these fantasies, of course, for Aunt Petunia would scoff and tell him that no one wanted him, not even his drunkard parents who drowned themselves in alcohol because they hated his very existence. Uncle Vernon would roar that there was no such thing as magic, and that there was only the one god, his God, and that Harry would be damned to hell for his blasphemy. Harry himself much preferred the older gods, who at least didn't pretend they cared while condemning humans to suffering. Dudley would tell his gang, and the gang would laugh and punch him, demanding to know why his powers or gods or whatever weren't protecting him from their fists.

It seemed to him that Aunt Petunia was right, for no one ever came. He didn't like Uncle Vernon's god, because anything that Vernon swore by was bound to hate Harry. As for Dudley, well, Dudley didn't really need an excuse to beat him up. But he might tell his parents, and so Harry kept quiet.

The man didn't answer, but only continued to stare at him as if he were an animal at the zoo that Dudley had visited with the school. At least, that's what Harry _thought_ it was like; his permission form was never signed, and so he had spent the day in the library, reading.

"Are you a god?" He hadn't meant to ask that; the words just came tumbling out of his mouth, tripping over one another in their haste to be heard. The man laughed. Harry blushed, biting his lower lip.

"You're quite precocious, aren't you, wereling?" Harry didn't know what precocious meant, or wereling. He shrugged in embarrassment. It wouldn't be wise to ask what he meant. Grown-ups always expected you to _know_. It wasn't polite to ask questions, and Harry had already made that mistake twice.

"I am sorry," he said, hoping that the strange man wouldn't leave. Harry liked him, despite what he had _seen _and what had happened. And the man hadn't denied that he was a god, either. Perhaps he was. Not a god like Uncle Vernon's, not a sanitary and boring god, but one of the old ones, the magical ones. The ones he wasn't supposed to talk about, the ones that Uncle Vernon said didn't exist at all because _magic wasn't real_.

Harry frowned, chewing his lip again and wrinkling his nose in confusion. But then how did he do _that_?

For the second time, the words left his mouth without warning. The man just smiled, an almost fond smile. No one ever looked at Harry like that. Aunt Petunia gazed at Dudley like that, smiling proudly at his photos on the mantel. There weren't any photos of Harry, and Aunt Petunia would likely have scowled at them if there were. But it felt nice, that look.

"Perhaps we should start at the beginning. I am Tyr med Ulfhednar." He bowed, and his cloak swung to one side. Harry gasped at the man, at Tyr. His right arm ended at the elbow. Tyr followed his gaze; he grimaced at the sight. "Even after twenty odd years, it still manages to shock me. You're fortunate that you've all your limbs after last night. Even so, I expect you'll have a nasty scar."

Still staring at the truncated limb, Harry nervously pulled the bandage wrapped around his own arm tighter. "I already have a nasty scar," he informed Tyr, echoing Aunt Petunia's words. Personally, he both liked and disliked his scar; it certainly looked wicked, but it set him apart as well.

"Aye, and both of those wounds will mark you for life. You're one of us now, wereling." Tyr kneeled beside Harry, laying his left arm- his whole arm- across the small boy's shoulders. Harry froze, unsure of what to do. He had never been touched like this before. Slowly, he relaxed. He could trust Tyr.

"What's a wereling?" he asked, hoping that, as Tyr had not scolded him for any of his previous questions, that it would be alright to ask.

"Wereling," Tyr began, adopting a lecturing tone like Harry's teacher, "is an affectionate turn for a young were creature, such as yourself." Harry opened his mouth to ask what a were creature was, but Tyr had anticipated, and continued with a smile. "Were creatures are therianthropes, and you and I are lycanthropes." At Harry's confused look, he added a single word, one that Harry actually understood. "Werewolves."

Harry stiffened, pushing the arm off his shoulders and scuttling away. He whirled around to face Tyr, tears sparkling at the corners of his eyes. "You're a... I'm a... monster?" he demanded. His face crumpled as he spoke, his voice rising in pitch. His tears followed through on their threat and plummeted to the ground.

"Not a monster, Harry. Never a monster. This is a gift, Harry, not a curse. I won't tell you that it will be easy, that everything will be okay now. I won't lie to you. If you want others to treat you without their ignorant prejudices, you will have to hide what you are. But you'll have the pack, and you'll have me." Tyr picked Harry off the ground, cradling the small boy to his chest.

"Werewolves aren't real!" Harry cried out. "Magic isn't real, and I'm not a bad boy, I'm not a freak, and I don't want to go to hell! I'm not a werewolf!" His fists pounded against Tyr, but the short man refused to release him. "Let me go! You're lying. I'm not a werewolf, and you don't want me, so don't pretend that you do! No one wants me." He couldn't see, could barely hear. His eyes were full of tears, and his head was beginning to pound, and all he knew was that surely this couldn't be true. He continued to struggle, beginning to kick with his bare feet. Tyr just held him all the tighter, an admirable feat for a one-armed man.

"No, no, no! I wanted to be special, and I wanted to be loved, but I didn't want this. Why, why, why? Magic isn't real, werewolves aren't real, you're not real!" He stopped shouting, then, and gave into his sobbing, head falling against Tyr's shoulder. The werewolf rubbed his back in soothing circles, telling him that it was going to be okay, that everything would be fine.

After some time, Harry calmed down; the only disturbance was an occasional sniffle or hiccup. Tyr carefully rearranged the boy so that he could see his face. "I want you to listen to me, okay, Harry?" he began, waiting for the small boy's nod before continuing. "I don't know what happened to you, not all of it, but I do know this. You are a very special little boy. Magic is quite real, as are werewolves."

"When... you turned... into a grown-up... I thought... you were... a god... like... in the stories..." Harry shuddered, and buried his face once more into Tyr's left shoulder. "And... it didn't matter... that you'd... bi... bit me... because you were a _god_ and you were going to take... take me away... from Aunt Petunia and Unc... Uncle Vernon..."

"I'm no god, Harry. But I will take you away. The relationship between you and I is a strong one, now that I've bitten you. I'll be like your father."

Apparently, that was the right thing to say, for Harry's eyes shone as his head shot up immediately. "Really? Really, really? I don't have a father, and you'll be mine? Are you sure? No one else wants me, or even likes me much."

"Of course I'm sure. I bit you for a reason, Harry. I've watched you for a week, and I've never met a kinder, sweeter boy. Your aunt and uncle are wrong, wereling. I know of a great many people who want you, and I'm glad that I was the one who got you." His eyes flickered oddly as he said this, but Harry was much too caught up in his joy to notice.

"Everything's going to be perfect now, isn't it?" Harry declared with a child's enthusiasm. Tyr smiled sadly.

"Not quite, wereling. But things will be better, I promise you that."

And Harry, long content with whatever scraps of love or hope he could find, nodded in contentment as the two set off.

* * *

Vanargand. Harry rolled the word about on his tongue, whispering it over and over again. Vanargand was going to be his home, where he would live with the rest of the werewolf pack. It was a rambling old building which looked as if had been continuously added to over centuries. There were Gothic arches and Doric columns and even a section that seemed to be made of mud. 

Tyr, holding his hand, led him inside. It was bright and airy, with high ceilings and lots of windows. Harry liked it immediately. He peered about in curiosity. There didn't seem to be much furniture, if any at all. There weren't even any real doors, just openings between one room and the next. It was all very strange, and very different from the Dursleys.

"Doesn't look like much," a tall black man growled, wiping his hands on his jeans as he entered the room. He wasn't wearing a shirt. "He's not much more than a mere speck of a boy. How'd he do it, y'reckon?"

Tyr shot the man a glare, moving his hand to squeeze Harry's shoulder. "I don't think Fenrir would want you talking to him about that. I know I don't." The man did something strange then, cocking his head to one side and tilting it back. Tyr snapped his teeth once, savagely, and led Harry further into the house.

There were other people, lounging about on cushions or leaning against the walls. Harry wasn't sure how many there were, or what they looked like, really. But they all watched him with curiously yellow eyes, and Harry felt himself looking right back.

They finally came to a small room, which somehow seemed different from all of the others. There was a single man here, lounging on the ground as if it were a throne. He had long, long grey hair and the yellow eyes that Harry was slowly becoming used to seeing. Harry stared at the man, before realizing his rudeness. He lowered his eyes.

"Already taught him, have you Tyr?" the man growled, moving languidly to his feet. He turned to Harry, flashing him a grin that was all sharp teeth. "Smart boy, to submit before the Alpha." Harry stumbled back a bit as the man advanced, looking around frantically for Tyr. The other werewolf had moved to stand quietly in the corner, watching the scene intently. Harry tripped, falling onto his back with a loud gasp. He quickly pushed himself up off the ground, trying to find what it was that he had tripped over.

A bone.

Harry's eyes widened, and he scrambled to his feet, whirling about to run out of the opening in the wall behind him. Faster than he could have thought possible, Tyr was there, blocking the way. Harry shot him a betrayed glance.

"I told you that this wasn't going to be perfect, wereling. You're not human anymore, so you'd best stop acting like it." Tyr pushed him gently on the shoulder. "You're no fool; figure it out for yourself. I'm not here to be your nursemaid."

Harry turned back to the other man, drawing a deep breath and setting his shoulders. "Are you going to eat me?" he asked, voice shaking. "I don't think I'd taste very good."

"Oh, but I disagree," the other told him, moving his face so that he and Harry were nearly nose to nose. "Humans taste _so_ delicious, especially the little boys. I just _love_ children." He raised an eyebrow at Harry, daring him to disagree. One sharp tooth nearly bit into his lip.

"I'm not human anymore," Harry argued. The Dursleys hadn't been very nice to him, but they didn't scare him like this man. He felt like his stomach was continually dropping out of his body, only to reappear again and repeat the process. "I'm a lyc-lycan..." Harry gave up. "A werewolf."

The man laughed, but Harry wasn't sure if that was good or not. It sounded unpleasant, like Uncle Vernon's harsh guffaws whenever he made a joke at Harry's expense. Harry was suddenly very sure that, whether or not he was eaten, he did _not_ like this man.

"That you are, Harry Potter." Harry gasped, and the man showed another toothy grin. "Oh, I know who are, _Harry_." The way his name was said made Harry uncomfortable. It was nothing like the way his teacher at school said it, without any emotion, or the way that Tyr said it, with affection. No, this was a crooning, mocking, scary way of saying it. "I know all about your past and that _lovely_ scar on your forehead."

Harry reached a hand up to trace the outline. "From the car crash?" he asked, fear momentarily forgotten.

The man laughed again, sending shivers up Harry's spine. "You don't get a scar like that from a stupid muggle contraption, boy. That's what you get when you're hit with a dark, dark spell."

"Magic isn't real!" Harry proclaimed, feeling as if he had said this at least a hundred times. "Uncle Vernon told me so. Besides, I don't even know who you are, so I don't believe a word that you say."

"Smart boy," the man repeated, snapping his jaws a mere centimetre from Harry's nose. Harry flinched back, running into Tyr. "Very well. I am Fenrir Greyback med Ulfhednar. And when I say that your scar was caused by a spell, you should listen." His yellow eyes flashed, and Harry was strongly reminded of the wolf that Tyr had been. "You are going to learn your place. Don't correct me. Ever."

Harry copied the gesture of the other werewolf earlier, twisting his head to the side. He froze in that position, hoping that he was doing the right thing. Tyr had seemed mad at the other man, but when he had done this, Tyr had stopped. Maybe it would work with Mr. Greyback, too.

"Such a clever, _clever_ boy. I don't think I will eat you after all." Harry started to relax. "Yet." He froze again, wanting to glare at the man, but afraid of the consequences. "You'd best obey me, pup, because I could always change my mind." Harry nodded, lowering his eyes.

"Perhaps you should explain it to him, Greyback," Tyr suggested meekly, his hand gripping Harry's shoulder again, like he had seen Uncle Vernon do to Dudley whenever he was proud of him. Was Tyr proud of him? Whatever for?

"I was just getting to that," Mr. Greyback growled. "You, _dear Harry_, are a wizard. Which means you can do magic. Which means that magic is real." He paused here, but Harry didn't say anything. Mr. Greyback smiled again, and this time there were less teeth. "Back when you were nothing but a mere snack-"

"A baby," Tyr translated, lowering his eyes at the other's furious glare.

"-a small, absolutely _delicious_ snack, a wizard by the name of Voldemort came and killed off your pathetic parents. And he tried to kill you, but something happened. And you got that scar. And we got hunted down to near extermination." Harry didn't say anything, but he knew he looked confused.

"The government doesn't like us werewolves much. Seems to think that we're a _danger_," he crooned, those sharp teeth that Harry could imagine tearing into his skin flashing again. "This wizard, the one who killed your parents, he was making things better for the lot of us. But you had to go and ruin it all." There was real fury in his voice now, in his eyes. This was not the simple anger he had shown before; it was much worse. Harry's stomach disappeared altogether, and didn't come back.

"The rest of those bloody wizards seem to think that you're their precious savior. The Boy-Who-Lived, they call you. Right famous, you are. But now, you're a werewolf. Do you know what that means, pup?" Harry shook his head, still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that he, Harry Potter, waste of space and freak, was famous.

"It means, of course, that you're going to do your damn best to see that werewolves start earning the respect they deserve. You cost us, and now you're going to pay us back again." Harry nodded; that seemed fair. That was what his life had been like with the Dursleys, after all: Harry repaying them for taking care of him with chores.

"Good boy," the werewolf snarled, running his long nails along Harry's cheek. "Perhaps you'll be worth all the trouble after all. And Lord Voldemort will certainly be... _pleased_."

"But Mr. Greyback-" Harry began, only to be stopped by the other's sudden movement. The alpha werewolf stopped caressing Harry's cheek, and backhanded him soundly. His long, sharp nails left scratches in his skin, and Harry could feel the blood welling up from the cuts.

"I am not _Mr. Greyback_," he growled, drawing out his own name in a mocking drawl. "I am Fenrir. And pups don't get to ask questions." This man reminded Harry far too much of Uncle Vernon, even though they physically could not have appeared more differently.

"Yes, sir," Harry answered contritely, "I'm sorry, sir. I won't do it again, please don't hit me." Harry raised his hands to cover his head, for whatever he said, he was sure that he would be cuffed soundly.

"Whatever those humans did, they did teach you your manners." Slowly, Harry lowered his arms. Fenrir was looking at him with an odd look that Harry couldn't quite decipher. "But I don't hit people unless they deserve it. You obey me, pup, and you won't be hit."

"Oh," Harry stated sadly. "I won't eat, then?" He did his best to make it not sound like a question, but his voice rose in pitch at the end, anyway.

"Whoever told you such nonsense, pup? We're not monsters; you'll eat your fill regardless of your behaviour. It's not right to starve someone for being an idiot."

"Thank you!" Harry cried, launching himself at the older werewolf. "I promise I'll be a good boy, and do whatever you want, just so long as you let me eat, and don't hit me too much, and don't lock me in the cupboard!"

Fenrir stiffened at the sudden movement and the feel of the small body pressed tightly to his. "I don't think you're in much of a position to negotiate," he finally managed, trying to disengage the boy. Harry let go immediately, lowering his eyes to the floor once more. "Save your weakling affections for Tyr. He actually seems to _like_ you." He said this with a curl of his lip, as if doubting that anyone could like Harry.

"Yes, sir." Harry turned to leave, only to be hauled back by the scruff of his neck.

"Did I say you could leave?" Fenrir barked, bringing the boy up to peer into his face and shaking him slightly. Harry mouthed a 'no', but could not bring himself to actually speak. "Why the hell are your eyes green? Tyr, you did bite him, didn't you?" The look on his face promised fierce retribution if the answer was no.

"Yes, Fenrir. I don't know why his eyes are green."

"They've_always_ been green," Harry interjected before the alpha could say anything.

"Killing curse green," Fenrir muttered, eyes distant as he cuffed Harry for his insolence. "You're just fool of bloody surprises, pup. You'd better not be more trouble than you're worth. Although," he added, leering at Harry in a way the boy most certainly did not appreciate, "you would be _such_ a delectable little morsel." Harry shivered, promising himself that he would do everything in his power not to end up as food.

* * *

The transformation to a werewolf hadn't hurt nearly as much as he had thought it would. He had been scared when Tyr explained to him that he would transform that night, as the moon would still be full for another two days. But mostly, he was excited. In his wolf form, he followed along in Tyr's wake, tail wagging and tongue lolling. He skipped about, sniffing at everything, pushing his nose into holes in the ground and jumping over tangled roots. 

Tyr, a small brown wolf, would circle around behind him every few minutes, nudging him with his nose, urging him on. Harry didn't know what was going to happen, but Fenrir had grinned when he told Tyr to bring Harry to Yggdrasil.

The pair came to a stop in front of a gargantuan tree. It was old, almost old enough that Harry felt as if it had a mind of its own, though he could have just been imagining that. A writhing nest of serpents slithered around its exposed roots.

Harry's ears perked up. This was new, and interesting. He wondered what they were doing there.

"_It issss the werewolvesss, masster,"_ something hissed. Harry stopped, his left forepaw raised in the air. Who was talking? A large snake, larger than all the rest by far, slowly uncoiled itself from the center of the pile, rising carefully so that it was able to come face to face with Tyr.

A large grey wolf slunk out from behind the tree, and the snake instantly turned to him.

"_Fenrir Greyback,"_ the snake acknowledged, tongue flickering out of his mouth. Since when could snakes speak? But then, Harry reasoned, just yesterday he hadn't believed in werewolves or magic either. He supposed it all made sense.

Fenrir didn't answer the emerald snake, but instead pushed Harry forward so that he was almost cross-eyed from looking at the snake right in front of his nose. Harry pricked his ears forward, more in curiosity than fear, and looked at the snake.

"_Harry Potter," _the snake greeted. "_It hasss been ssso long_."

"_Sssorry,"_Harry responded, surprised to hear it come out as a low hiss, _"do I know you?"_

The snake reared back, and Harry lowered his head to the ground, tail up in the air. Was the snake going to bite him? _"You ssspeak?" _He sounded completely shocked. _"A werewolf ssshould not be able to ssspeak the sssnake tongue." _

"_I've never heard a sssnake ssspeak either," _Harry answered, a bit indignant. He bared his teeth, half in play, and half in warning. _"Perhapsss it isss magic."_

"_It isss that. You pleassse me greatly, Harry Potter. I am Lord Voldemort."_

Harry shivered, curling his tail around his legs and tilting his head to the side. _"I am sssorry to have tried to defeat you, Lord Voldemort. I wisssh I could do sssomething to make it up to you." _Hopefully he was doing the right thing. After all, he was a werewolf now, and Fenrir had said that Lord Voldemort protected werewolves.

"_Perhapsss you can. But for now, be a good little sssnake and lisssten to Fenrir."_

"_Yes, sir," _Harry agreed eagerly. Tyr had taken him away from the Dursleys, and brought him into this world of magic, even if he hadn't really seen any yet, besides the transformation and talking snakes. Tyr followed Fenrir, and Fenrir followed Voldemort, so he resolved to do the same.

"_Disssmissssssed."_ The snake buried down into the mass of wriggling serpents and disappeared as suddenly as he had appeared.

Harry grinned and wagged his tail, pleased with himself. He turned around to share his triumph with Tyr, only to find both him and Fenrir staring at him with tails hooked forward and their ears flat against their skulls.

* * *

"He shouldn't be able to do that!" Fenrir raged, amber eyes flashing dangerously. 

"His eyes shouldn't be green either," Tyr pointed out calmly. "But they are."

"It is _physically impossible_ for a wolf to produce the hisses required to speak Parseltongue!"

"It is physically impossible for a human to do so as well, yet that is, if not necessarily accepted, at least known to be possible."

"I'm sorry," Harry piped up from where he was crouched on the floor, eyes wide. "I didn't know I was doing anything wrong; I thought that you could do it too! I thought that I could speak to another animal because I was one. I won't do it again, I promise!" He was trembling, both from the exhaustion of the full moon and in fear.

"Shh, wereling," Tyr comforted. "You didn't do anything wrong. Parseltongue, the ability to speak to serpents, is a rare gift. It is shocking that you are able to do so at all, much less when you are not human."

"What did he say to you?" Fenrir demanded, snarling at Harry. "And it had _better_ be good. I missed my dinner last night because of you, and I am_hungry_. You could easily be a substitute."

Harry gulped. "He said hello to you, and then to me, and then he asked how I could speak, but I didn't know either, and I apologized for killing him when I was a baby, and told him I'd try to make it up to him, and then he said that perhaps I could, and then he said to go! That's it, really!"

"You _apologized_ to the Dark Lord for killing him? I'm not sure whether or not to congratulate you for bravery or cuff you for your stupidity." Fenrir paced, the movement strangely wolf-like, even though he was only on two legs.

"I won't do it again, if I'm not supposed to. I don't want to be in trouble. I just thought... that he might want to hurt me for hurting him, and you said he helped werewolves, and I am one know, and that means that he should protect me too and I didn't want him to be mad at me and hit me like Uncle Vernon so I apologized and I'm sorry!" At the end of this, Harry had to stop and heave great lungfuls of air; he had spoken very rapidly and without pausing for a breath.

"I think that's enough of an initiation to the pack for anyone, Fenrir. Perhaps we need not test the boy further. His loyalty is quite strong."

Fenrir ignored Tyr, instead focusing on Harry. "Listen, and listen well. I don't like you. But you're a part of the pack, and the Dark Lord has accepted you. Perhaps you'll be able to prove me wrong. Perhaps not. Either way, you put _one paw_ over the line, and I'll see to it that you wished Voldemort had succeeded in killing you. That clear?" Harry nodded, eyes wide. Fenrir was scary, really scary.

"But," he said after a moment, his mouth open in what could have been a smile but probably wasn't, "I do think you've done quite enough to become a pack member. Welcome to the pack, Harry med Ulfhednar."

He placed a single dogrose in Harry's hands, spun about abruptly, and left. Harry stared at the flower, wondering what it meant, and if he even really wanted to know.

* * *

Dogrose: Pleasure and pain

* * *


	3. Chapter Two: Asphodel

* * *

Chapter Two: Asphodel

"Of asphodel, that greeny flower,

like a buttercup

upon its branching stem-

save that it's green and wooden-

I come, my sweet,

to sing to you.

We lived long together

a life filled,

if you will,

with flowers. So that

I was cheered

when I came first to know

that there were flowers also

in hell."

"Asphodel, That Greeny Flower," William Carlos Williams

Harry blinked at the owl, and the owl blinked right back. It was a large bird, with dull brown feathers and wide eyes. Harry blinked again; the owl stretched out a foot. A piece of twine was tied around the claw, securing a parchment envelope. Harry made no move to take it, and the owl pecked him on the nose. Harry carefully reached out, hoping that his hand would not be bitten, and removed the letter.

_Mr. H. Potter_

_Vanargand_

_Heath,_

_Norfolk_

There was a strange seal pressed into a blob of wax, with a badger, snake, lion, and raven surrounded by a ribbon of Latin words. He carefully slid a finger under the wax, careful not to tear the strange signet, for he did not know what it meant, and he wanted it intact so that he could later find out. He perused the letter quickly, the parchment feeling rough against his fingertips. He had been offered a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. But how? Tyr had never mentioned putting his name down for any school, much less a magical one, and he couldn't imagine Fenrir wanting him to have anything much to do with the wizards that hated werewolves and hunted them so adamantly.

He remembered Dudley being forced into ties, his hair plastered down on his head, being dragged off to interviews for Smeltings, where Uncle Vernon had gone for secondary. Harry had never been interviewed or given an entrance exam for this Hogwarts, so how was he to be enrolled there? Perhaps these things worked differently in the Wizarding world, as so much else seemed to.

Ignoring the owl that was still staring at him with those great round eyes, Harry set off to find Tyr; surely he could explain this. He walked through the rooms of Vanargand, doing his best not to catch the attention of any of the other werewolves. This was something he wanted to keep to himself, or at least to share only with Tyr. Sometimes being different was a bad thing. Packs had to work together in order to survive, and they couldn't have any sort of weirdos hanging around and going against the alpha if they were going to do that. And Fenrir was the alpha, and Fenrir hated magic, and anything that Fenrir hated was different.

He finally found Tyr in the back of the building, in Fenrir's room. He shuddered at the memories: of his first introduction to the alpha, and of later punishments for disobedience. But he didn't see Fenrir, only Tyr, and so he handed the man the letter.

"I don't understand, Tyr. I've never even heard of this school before; did you put my name down?" Tyr looked at the letter in his hand, clutching the parchment tightly in his fist. He did not respond, seemingly somewhere else completely.

"I imagine your parents put your name down," he finally answered. "They would've done so as soon as they knew you had magic, of course, as most Wizarding families do." He had a strange look on his face, one of longing and anger and determination. "It's the best- and really the only halfway decent- Wizarding school in all of Britain. There are a few others, of course, private things, but they can't hold a candle to Hogwarts. You'll learn all sorts of things there, I imagine."

"He's not going," a new voice growled. Fenrir stepped into the room, halfway in a crouch, his fangs gleaming in the sunlight streaming through the windows. "I refuse to send a pack member to live among those _wizards_." He twisted the word on his tongue, making it sound dirtier than all the words he had learned from older werewolves, the words he had promised Tyr he would never, ever repeat.

"He _is_ a wizard, Fenrir," Tyr argued. "He may be a werewolf, but he's a wizard as well. He's not going to be denied the chance to learn about magic. You can't deny that part of him, not like-" Tyr stopped talking then. Harry thought it might have been because of Fenrir's sharp glare, of his glistening teeth, but Tyr's face didn't show any fear.

"No pack member attends Hogwarts. You've known that since you first came here, even if you never liked it. That bloody boy is no exception." Fenrir circled Tyr, still in his half-crouch. "I won't have them twisting him to their designs. He belongs to the pack." He ripped the letter out of Tyr's hand,

"He will go to Hogwarts," Tyr said, voice clear and even. He stood up straighter, no signs of submission in his posture.

"No he won't!" Fenrir snarled, lunging for Tyr. He swiped a hand across Tyr's face, long fingernails leaving deep scratches.

"Leave him alone!" Harry yelled, trying to maneuver himself in between the two warring werewolves.

"This doesn't concern you, pup," Fenrir barked, removing one hand from Tyr's throat to swipe at the boy.

"It bloody well does concern me!" Harry huffed, momentarily forgetting his promise not to use that sort of language. "It's _my _letter!"

Fenrir made a low, guttural noise in his throat, turning towards Harry. "You'll do as I say, pup, and I say that you aren't going to Hogwarts." He kicked at Tyr, advancing slowly on the small boy. "I'd thought you'd learned to listen to your Alpha by now, but apparently I was wrong. And I don't like to be wrong." He smiled in that odd way of his, the kind of smile that made Harry's entire being freeze in fear, the smile that promised that whatever happened next, Harry wasn't going to like it.

"I didn't say I had to go!" Harry protested, baring his neck and lowering his eyes. "Just that you should leave Tyr alone. He didn't do anything wrong."

"Challenging me is wrong!" Fenrir roared, teeth snapping and eyes wild. "I am the Alpha, and my decisions are final!"

"And Lord Voldemort?" Tyr coughed, levering himself to his feet carefully, twinging as his bruised throat ached from the effort of speaking.

"How am I supposed to help him if I don't know any magic?" Harry asked, catching on, trying to be as levelheaded as possible. He wanted to learn magic; now that he knew that Hogwarts was a real place, and that he could actually attend, he knew it was the only way for them to reach their goals. Now he just had to convince Fenrir of that. "And werewolves, too. You want me to use my position as the Boy-Who-Lived to support our cause. How can I do that if the Wizarding world doesn't even know where I am?"

Fenrir growled, but it was different from his growls before. Now, he was annoyed that he had been proven wrong, that Tyr and Harry had managed to utilize the wishes of a higher authority. "I don't like my pups going out into that world. They'll put ideas in your head, tell you that we're evil monsters who can't control ourselves. Bastards don't know anything about us."

He whipped around, facing Tyr once more. "And who do you suggest will take him, eh? I'd like to see you lolloping around Diagon Alley. You've been with the pack since you were a titty-toddy tidbit. If I showed up there, they'd be stabbing me with silver and shooting spells as soon as they could whip out their pitiful sticks." Fenrir paused to let this all sink in. "And none of the other pack members are suitable; I don't trust them with him." Fenrir smirked in triumph. "So there's no one to take him to get his school supplies, all that rubbish listed in this letter. Cauldrons and wands and robes and whatnot; no werewolf needs these things!"

"Harry is right, Fenrir. If you want him to influence the Wizarding world, you have to let him be a part of it. And so he'll need 'wands and robes and all that rubbish,' as you put it, if he's to succeed." Tyr smiled, but it was a bittersweet expression. "And we both know the perfect man to take him to Diagon Alley."

"I'm not going to trust any human with the boy!"

A corner of Tyr's lip flashed upwards. "Of course not," he said placatingly. "Lupin is no human, now is he?"

* * *

It had not been a pleasant night. Harry walked down the dirt path towards the ramshackle cottage with heavy eyes and heavier feet. The arguing had never quit, not really. Finally, Tyr had grabbed Harry's hand in his and walked out of Vanargand. Fenrir had moved to follow, but the other werewolves, who had been drawn by the shouting, had blocked his way. Harry still wasn't sure what to think about that; they'd never all gone against Fenrir at once like that. 

A few hours and several forms of Muggle transportation later, they had arrived at the small village of Hedera, located somewhere in Suffolk. The countryside didn't seem that much different from the lands surrounding Vanargand, which pleased Harry. He was uncomfortable enough about meeting a strange werewolf that both Fenrir and Tyr seemed to despise.

Quite a few weeds, or perhaps a misshapen garden, lay to both sides of the pathway, hedged in by a dilapidated fence that wouldn't serve to impede a baby kneazle. The door didn't quite fit the door frame, but hung awkwardly upon its hinges, like clothing that belonged to a much bigger man. Tyr let go of Harry's hand, removing a bunch of flowers from his young charge. He motioned for Harry to knock on the door. Harry did so, surprised that the entire croft didn't collapse at the motion. He heard a bit of scuffling from inside, and then the door swung open to reveal a wan man with greying hair. He blinked his eyes, which were a pale brown.

"J-James?" he asked, focusing all of his attention on Harry, who ignored him just as he was ignoring Tyr.

"I thought you said he was a werewolf," he complained to Tyr, a bit put off. "His eyes aren't yellow at all."

"He is a werewolf, though he likes to pretend he isn't," Tyr responded, glowering at the man. "He pushes his wolf down, like the weakling that he is, and it shows." He frowned at Harry, though it lacked the animosity of his former glare. "You need to stop relying on that to identify a werewolf. Your eyes aren't exactly amber either, Harry."

"Tyr-" the man began, only to be interrupted.

"Med Ulfhednar. I gave up my old name a long time ago, Lupin." He showed his canines, but Lupin didn't make any of the submissive motions. "These are for you. A gift for your welcome." Tyr thrust the flowers into the other's hands, his tone indicating that he was not pleased with the fact that he had to deal with the man. "The asphodel and St. John's Wort are from me. The fumitory is compliments of Fenrir." Lupin paled, but accepted the offering.

"Come inside," he invited dully, his eyes fixated on Harry once more. The three sat down at an oak table that was possible more rickety than the fence outside. No one said anything for a long time.

"I'm Remus Lupin," the stranger finally said, offering a hand to Harry. He stared at it blankly. Was he supposed to do something? Lupin winced and retracted the hand.

"Harry med Ulfhednar." Lupin flinched again. Harry didn't make any other move of greeting, unsure as to how he should treat this man. He acted like a human, and yet he was a werewolf. Which set of rules should he follow? He barely even remembered the human ones, as those memories were associated with the Dursleys, and he tried to forget his life with them as much as possible.

"He got his Hogwarts letter," Tyr interjected into the silence, "and he needs his school supplies. Neither Fenrir nor I can take him." Lupin recoiled at the mention of Fenrir, looking at Harry in commiseration. "You can."

Lupin shot Harry a lingering glance, and nodded his head. "I will take him. It would be good to get to know him before the school year starts." Harry raised an eyebrow, questioning. "I have been asked by Dumbledore to be the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor," he explained. "I was not going to accept, as my status as a werewolf would surely anger parents... but if you are going to be there..." He stopped, eyes sad and wistful. "Professor Snape can brew the Wolfsbane potion, of course, so it would be safe."

Tyr snorted. "I should have known that you would take that bloody concoction."

"What's Wolfsbane?" Harry piped up, scooting forward on his rough chair.

"It's a potion that pushes down the wolf 'round the full moon. Makes them more human, more controllable. No true werewolf would ever take it," Tyr replied, eyes fixed on Lupin.

"He would if he wanted to live around humans," Lupin countered mildly, still looking at Harry with a wistful expression on his face. "The Wolfsbane potion is set to make the Ministry more sympathetic to werewolves, as it means that they are more like Animgai, rather than beasts."

"I'm certainly not taking it," Harry proclaimed, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "If the Ministry thinks we're beasts, that's their problem. I think that their attitude towards lycanthropes is beastly; shooting us up with silver and refusing us a voice. _They're _the real monsters."

Throughout Harry's diatribe, Lupin's eyes had grown round and shocked. "What did you do to him?" he asked Tyr, voice dangerously quiet. It was if he had just realised, despite the mentions of Fenrir and Tyr's other comments, that Harry wasn't human. "What did you do to James' son?"

"I bit him, obviously," Tyr replied with a snort. "He's been brought up in the pack ways, just like I was. Just like you should have been." Lupin said nothing, but there was a pained look in his eyes. "And if you so much as _think_ of harming him, I'll make sure that lycanthropy is the _least_ of your worries." His amber eyes were hard.

"I would never hurt him!" Lupin protested, springing to his feet and knocking over his chair. "You're the one who bit him, who cursed him-"

"I gave him a gift!" Tyr roared, slamming his one hand down against the table. It shuddered, and one of the legs slid, tilting the table at an odd angle. "I gave him a new life, a new family; what have you done for him? Nothing, except abandon him to those Muggles! It's because of me that Harry will attend Hogwarts at all; Fenrir would never have let him go. Where is the curse in that?"

"You monster," Lupin growled, his voice low. Tyr lunged across the table, which collapsed under his weight. He pinned Lupin to the floor, his hand wrapped tightly around the other's throat. Lupin writhed underneath him, gasping for air, hands trying to loosen Tyr's grip.

Why didn't Lupin submit? He was smaller, and weaker, and he wasn't even a _real_ werewolf, not if what Tyr had said about Wolfsbane was true. If Lupin would just stop struggling, would admit that Tyr had dominated him, then he would be able to breathe. But Lupin would not, and Tyr would not let go, either. He raised up Lupin's head, smashing it back down against the dirt floor.

"Stop it!" Harry finally cried. "Tyr, we all know that you're the better fighter; just let it go!"

"Let it go?" Tyr snarled, turning to face Harry. He dropped Lupin amid the splinters of wood. "He has been a _disgrace_ to werewolves everywhere since he was first turned! He thinks that if he lives like a human, he can be a human. And what do they do? Refuse him employment, laugh at him, curse him! He deserves whatever he gets, from humans and werewolves alike. He's a traitor: to the first wolf, to werewolves, to-"

Tyr stopped himself, biting down on whatever word he had been going to say. He was shaking with rage, barely able to restrain himself from spitting out his last words. The unfinished sentence hung on the air; the atmosphere was heavy with tension.

"We'd best leave, if you want to finish at Diagon Alley before nightfall," Lupin finally remarked, looking at his feet. "Where do you want to pick him up?"

"I will return here at seven," Tyr responded in clipped tones, barely managing to speak through his clenched jaw, his eyes sparking with repressed fury. "Harry..." He trailed off, uncertain of what to say. Tyr moved to stand in front of the boy, kneeling down so that they were nearly eye to eye. "No matter what happens, no matter what anyone says, remember who you are, _what_ you are. I'm proud of you, wereling." He gave the boy a brief, awkward one-armed hug, and pushed him gently towards Lupin. "You have a good time, alright? You belong there. You're a werewolf_ and_ a wizard, remember that."

He turned to Lupin then, eyes dark and flashing. "If you harm so much as one hair on that boy's head, I'll rip you into pieces." He flashed his teeth in what was definitely _not_ a smile. He said no more, but rather turned around and walked out the door.

Lupin smiled at him, and Harry grinned uncertainly back. "You have your supply list?" Harry nodded. "We'll Floo to Diagon Alley, then." He pulled a miniature cauldron off the mantle, grimacing at the fine green powder that only barely managed to cover the bottom. "Just a pinch, that's all you need, and you throw it in the fire and say your destination." Lupin demonstrated, stepping into the suddenly green flames. "I'll be at the end when you come out, watch for me. You don't want to get out at the wrong grate, so keep your eyes open." And, with a shout of 'Diagon Alley!' Lupin spun away, leaving Harry alone in the small cottage.

He took a small pinch of the powder and quickly threw it in the flames, not liking the way it clung to his fingers. "Diagon Alley!" he said, voice quavering. He began to spin quickly; there was no transition between stillness and motion, and it was quite disconcerting. He tried to keep his eyes open as instructed, but soot swirled around him, and he barely managed to keep one eye cracked to look for Lupin. After a few minutes, though it felt like an eternity, he saw the haggard man and took an instinctive step forward. He stumbled out of the whirlwind of the Floo network, tripping onto the surprised Lupin.

"I do _not_ like Flooing," he announced, righting himself quickly, brushing the soot of his jumper and trousers. Lupin gave him a sympathetic smile.

"The first thing to do, I suppose, is to get your money from Gringotts." He began to lead Harry out of the dark pub they had entered, eyes looking at precisely nothing. Harry, though, could not decide what to look at first. There was a man at least three times the size of anyone Harry had ever seen, with muscles that could surely overpower even Fenrir. In a corner, hidden in the shadows, a sallow woman with uncontrollable blue hair watched the pair with eyes that seemed to glow. Harry thought he could sit in one of the dirty booths with circular stains from sweating glasses and just observe for hours. Unfortunately, Lupin had other ideas. He led Harry out of the pub and into a small alleyway. He paused for a moment, smiling at Harry as he drew his wand out of the pocket of his tattered gray robe. He gently tapped the bricks; Harry gasped in shock.

The bricks folded back, disappearing into the others, and an archway slowly began to form.

"It's magic," Harry said, astounded. None of the werewolves knew how to do any magic, or, if they did, they abstained. They had other strengths, and did not feel the need to wave around a feeble stick that they could snap with only two fingers.

"Yes," Lupin said, still smiling his sad little smile, "magic is beautiful, isn't it? You'll see more at Hogwarts, of course; the castle is a wonder."

They began to walk among the throngs of people, and Harry observed everything with wide eyes. "Why doesn't Fenrir like magic, then? Or Tyr? If it's so wonderful, wouldn't they want to be a part of it?" he asked as they skirted past a large man with a too wide grin full of red-stained teeth.

Lupin stopped, drawing Harry into a small alley between an apothecary and Sevot's Salmanazars. "Harry, it is not a wise idea to mention Fenrir in public. He is not well thought of among wizards. Magic is a wonderful thing, but you must understand that wizards hate and fear werewolves. Regardless of the our actual natures, they- we- are seen as vicious, bloodthirsty beasts. Fenrir does not make a good impression, and prejudice against werewolves has increased greatly since the rise of You-Know-Who. He makes things harder for the rest of us. I do not know how long it has been since you were bitten, but you must realise that he _is_ a monster. Not because he is a werewolf, but because of his actions.

"It is our actions that make us who we are. He has done terrible things, Harry, horrible things. He is not the man I would have chosen to be your guardian."

"I know that!" Harry protested, lifting his head proudly. "He considers the throats of children as a _delicacy_. But he had me taken away from the Dursleys, and for that..." He stumbled over the words, trying to find the right ones. It was like the time that Jareth had taken him tickling for trout up at the creek, just to the north of Vanargand. The words were there, he could feel them, touching the tip of his tongue oh so lightly like the bellies of the fish across his fingers, and just as unattainable.

"They are your relatives, Harry! I never did meet Petunia, as she was traveling at the time of your parents' wedding, but she is Lily's sister. I'm sure she's very nice." Lupin tried to smile at Harry, but his grin faltered at the increasingly furious expression on Harry's face.

"She wasn't traveling; she told me so herself. When I asked about my parents, she told me all about how she had skipped her 'freakish sister's wedding to that awful boy.' She hated me! My 'bedroom' was the cupboard under the stairs! I did _all_ of the chores, and I didn't eat meat until I was bitten. How _nice_," he spat out, "does that sound to you?"

Lupin's lips stretched down into a thoughtful frown. "Even so, Harry, I think it would be best if you were removed from there. Your relatives are obviously not acceptable, and it would be hard for you to find a home with a Wizarding family due to your 'furry little problem' as your father called it. But you could live with me."

"I don't even know who you are, or anything about you, other than your name and your 'furry little problem.'" Harry turned away from him as if heading out into the wide avenue. "Fenrir might not be a much of a father figure, but I've got Tyr."

Lupin flinched, though Harry couldn't see it. He began to follow the boy, gently shepherding him towards the oddly tilted Corinthian columns of Gringotts Wizarding Bank. "I knew your parents, went to school with them, in fact. They were good people, kind people." He stopped and sighed, eyes closing as he tried to shut out the memories. "I suppose... if you are happy there, if you are content- if you are not in any danger- then you can stay there."

"I suppose I can too," Harry said with an edge to his voice. "After all, I owe them for what I did, what I ruined for them."

Lupin wisely said nothing as Harry pushed open the large double doors, ignoring the quaint lettering.

* * *

They did not speak again, except for the necessary little comments, until they entered Ollivander's. Harry carefully avoided the spindly chair, which looked like it would collapse if he set even one of his thick new spellbooks down upon it. He sneezed as dust filled his nostrils. 

"Mr. Potter. Here for your first wand." It was not a question. The man looked positively _ancient_, like the old, old trees that surrounded Vanargand, the ones that Harry secretly suspected were sentient. He seemed, Harry thought, far too old to be human. "Just like your father, and your mother. I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter, every single wand." Harry wanted to ask how many, but answered his own silent question with a curt "loads."

"You look like your father, of course, except for your eyes. Those belong to your mother, though hers were never quite _that_ green." Lupin, who had perched on the doddering chair carefully, started at that.

"First wand?" Harry asked, surprised. "Do you need more than one?"

Ollivander was measuring him, he realised, a dusky purple measuring tape stretching across his arm, around his head, between his nostrils. "Power changes over time, Mr. Potter," he explained as he ran, your power over to the large shelves that stood like sentinels against the walls. "Just as your body grows, your power does as well. This can call for a new wand, to better suit the wizard. It is the wand that chooses the wizard of course, not the other way 'round." He carefully placed a large, teetering stack of long slender boxes on the single counter.

"Wave the wand, if you please," he ordered, Handing Harry a dark, twisted wand. "Ebony and unicorn hair, a very diametric combination. Harry did as instructed, feeling a bit foolish as he whipped the wand through the air. It made a sputtering noise and grew hot in his hand; Harry dropped it, nearly yelping.

"Apparently not. Hornbeam and phoenix feather, thirteen and one quarter inches." Harry took the offered wand with some trepidation, waving it more carefully this time. The papers layering the counter scattered as if there were a brisk breeze. "Myrtle and unicorn hair, a rather bendy wand, I think."

After half an hour, Ollivander's wand shop looked as if it had been blown apart. Wand boxes lay scattered on the floor, a vase of flowers had crashed and was slowly leaking a viscous grey sludge, and Lupin's chair had somehow disappeared. Harry felt hopeless; what if he wasn't any good at this magic, what if there wasn't a wand for him? How could he disappoint Tyr? He obviously wanted Harry to learn magic, and Harry wanted to do so, to thank him for all he had done, to please him.

"We'll find the wand for you yet," Ollivander muttered every few minutes, scrambling back and forth with dusty boxes in his hands. "Holly and phoenix feather, strong wand for Light magic." Ollivander had a strange expression on his face, expectant and somewhat fearful. Harry again flicked his wrist; the wand shot out black and red sparks that quickly caught on the scattered papers, creating a small bonfire. Lupin drew his own wand and, with a muttered word that Harry didn't quite catch, doused the flames with a small jet of clear water. Ollivander's face was a study in disappointment: brows furrowed, lips pursed, and eyes sad.

"Well then," he said, obviously shaken. "Perhaps not." He grabbed a few boxes of the shelves dishearteningly, pushing one at Harry at random. "Cypress and dragon heartstring, nine inches even." He placed the previous wand in the box sadly, setting it aside from all of the other rejects. "Give it a wave, then, give it a wave." He didn't even bother to look to see if Harry complied.

Harry did so with a shrug, gasping as instead of explosions, soft ebony and violet lights sparkled from the tip, falling softly to the floor, bouncing around a bit before disappearing in a soft ball of bell-shaped petals that blew about the room in a wind that touched nothing else.

"Congratulations, Harry," Remus said softly, though Harry thought that this was more for the benefit of the distant Mr. Ollivander than himself.

"Oh. Oh, oh yes. Well, it is the wand that chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter, the wand that chooses the wizard..." Ollivander ended his rambling, looking off at something again. Harry reached for the coin purse that he had tied to the belt loop of his trousers, but Ollivander waved him away.

"No charge, Mr. Potter. We expect great things from you. You-Know-Who did great things, terrible things, and what else could would expect from his conqueror?" Harry did not say anything, but let the coin purse fall back against his leg. Ollivander did not seem entirely aware of himself, but Harry was not about to press for payment. He was too confused (and too unused to the feeling of having money) to force his galleons down the man's thin throat. What did they expect from him? Terrible things as well?

Remus followed him out of the store, pulling him aside. "Ollivander was right," he whispered to himself, brushing the fringe away from his eyes.

"About what?" Harry demanded, pulling away. "That I'm going to do terrible things? Do you think I'll just start blowing everyone up?"

"No," he denied, still staring, mesmerized, at Harry's eyes. "Your eyes... they _are_ green."

"I know that they're not yellow, as they should be, but we don't know why they never changed." He crossed his arms over his chest, wishing that it wouldn't look stupid if he were to close his eyes and never open them again. Fenrir always made such a big deal out of them, too. Tyr didn't seem to care much one way or the other, and the other pack members found them more of a curiosity than anything else, but he couldn't help but think that maybe he wasn't a _real_ werewolf, that he was like Lupin. "What colour should they be?" he added, hoping that the comment came out as biting, not puny like it sounded to his own ears.

"Brown. That's what they were when you were a baby. You looked just like James, right down to the eyes. But now they're Lily's." He looked as if he were smiling, somewhere deep inside, but the expression on his face was full of a heavy concern.

"No. No they're not. They're not James' eyes, they're not Lily's eyes. They're _my _eyes." Something needed to belong to him. His life didn't- it was Voldemort's and Fenrir's. His face and form were that of his father. But his eyes... those were his. They weren't Voldemort's lightning bolt scar, or Tyr's bite mark, or Jareth's or any other pack member's cast-offs.

Lupin opened his mouth to say something, but Harry cut him off. "Maybe you knew my parents, but you don't know me. Just stop it! I don't like you!" He turned and fled, quite aware that tears were stinging his eyes, that he was talking like a baby.

He fled blindly in the direction of that first pub, away from Lupin, away from Ollivander, away from all these strange people who kept trying to get a second glance at him.

Suddenly, Harry was crushed against a soft figure, and soft arms encircled him. He could hear the women who held him shouting, yelling, and he forced his head out of her bosom so that he could hear exactly what she was saying.

"How dare you talk to him, scare him! You monster!" Others joined in, heckling Lupin who stood in the midst of them all, head bowed. "He's just a little boy, he's our saviour, and you're trying to make him into a... a monster just like you!" The crowd hissed. "Werewolf!" It came out as a curse, an epithet that inspired fear and hatred.

"Stop it!" Harry cried, tearing himself away from the woman and stepping in front of Lupin. "What's it matter to you, what he's doing? He's just as much a person as you are!" But the crowd just shook their heads, look of pity on their faces.

"Harry," the woman called out, tilted eyes softening and straight black hair swaying as she shook her head. "I know that you're knew to all of this, but you must understand. He is a werewolf, a monster. Whatever he said to you, it was a lie. You're just a little boy, and he's trying to take advantage of that, dear. You're very special Harry, our saviour, and he just wants to twist you."

The crowd nodded in agreement. "If I'm your saviour, why can't I decide for myself? If I can save you, surely I can tell who's a monster and who's not." He fought to keep his lip from curling, had to struggle to keep his voice calm. Fenrir had given him the passion, but Tyr had given him the logic. He knew how to do this, how to convince them that they were wrong.

"And why is he a monster for trying to convince me of something, and yet you can tell little kids lies, and that's okay?" The woman stared at him, and Harry turned, appealing to the crowd. "What about her?" he motioned to a little girl who was pressing her face into her mother's neck and trying to watch with her wide blue eyes at the same time. "You're teaching her to hate, for no good reason."

"But he's a monster!" a bald man shouted hoarsely. "A werewolf, they slaughter children, ravening, insane monsters."

"Only during the full moon! Isn't that right? The rest of the time, he's just another wizard. He's no different for you," the sneers switched to incredulous looks, "or me." There was a general outcry at this.

"Harry Potter!"

"Our saviour!"

"You're pure, you're not a monster!"

"No," he said, hoping that he could manage this. These were adults, and he was just a kid. He felt the urge to bare his neck and arch his belly in submission. "I'm not a monster. And neither is he." In his mind, it had all been so easy. He knew what was right, and everyone would listen, and things would be better. That was how it was supposed to work. It wasn't fair!

He took a deep breath. He only had so much more to give. "I don't think he's a monster at all. I think..." his voice quavered, and he couldn't stop it, and he didn't sound anywhere near as forceful as he wanted, "that the true monsters are those who hate others for something they can't help." He kept his head up, but that was the best he could manage. He walked away, grabbing Lupin's hand and pulling the other werewolf with him.

* * *

Harry launched himself at what he hoped was Tyr, the soot from the Floo and the tears in his eyes blurring his vision. "Don't ever make me go back," he pleaded, sobbing into his shoulder, "I don't want to go there, I hate it, don't make me!" 

Tyr held the boy as best he could, supporting his weight with his arm. He glared at Lupin over the boy's head. "I told you to keep him safe, Lupin. What the hell did you do?" He pulled Harry closer. "As soon as I get Harry back home, I'm going to-"

"Stop it, Tyr," Harry hiccuped, fighting back his tears as best as he could, trying to be brave, to show Tyr that he was strong enough. "It's not him, not all him, anyway."

"Thank you, Harry," Lupin said quietly. "For what you did for-"

"I didn't do it for you," Harry growled, his nose feeling full of wet cotton and a headache pounding at his skull. "I didn't do any of it for you. I did it for Tyr, for Tyr! If it was for you, I wouldn't have said a w-word." And he collapsed back onto Tyr, losing the battle against the onslaught of tears, and begging the man to never, ever make him go back to the wizards again.

"Shh, wereling," he soothed, tucking Harry's head under his neck. "We'll get you home, where you belong, away from the big bad wolf." This brought a choked laugh from Harry, but he still clenched his fists tightly to Tyr's leather jacket, knowing that he was ruining it with his tears and not caring. Tyr led him out the door, out of the cottage, out of the world he had come to despise, but not before turning to snarl at Lupin.

"But I'll be the one to huff, and puff, and I'll blow your fucking head off."

* * *

Asphodel: My regrets follow you to the grave  
Heath: Solitude  
Ivy (Hedera): Anxious to please  
St John's Wort: Animosity  
Fumitory: Hatred  
Oak: Strength  
Ebony: Hypocrisy, blackness  
Myrtle: Everlasting loveliness   
Holly: Life, Immortality  
Cypress: Adaptable, faithful, quick-tempered  
Canterbury Bells: Acknowledgment

* * *


	4. Chapter Three: Hellebore

Chapter Three: Hellebore

"I would rather take hellebore than spend a conversation with a good, little man.

Edward Dahlberg

Harry slept fitfully, curled around Tyr on the vinyl seat cushions of the train. His dreams were short, flitting from thought to thought and scene to scene. People yelling at him, telling him he was a failure, being locked in a cage and poked and prodded like the animals in a Muggle zoo. Tyr stroked his hair softly, trying to coax him into a deeper sleep. Eventually Harry settled down somewhat, but his limbs would twitch every now and then.

Tyr reluctantly woke him as they approached Heath, shaking his arm gently. Harry blinked and yawned, burrowing deeper into Tyr's side and mumbling something about wanting more sleep. Tyr ignored his complaints, waking the boy fully.

"We're almost home, Harry," he announced, pulling the boy with him onto the train platform. "Just a bit longer, wereling."

Twenty minutes later the rambling form of Vanargand came into view, complete with a fuming Fenrir with his back against the single Tudor style wall of the building. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees and his hands dangling between his legs. Harry cowered back at the furious yellow gaze, hiding behind Tyr as much as possible.

"So nice of you to return," he snarled, reaching to the side. He lifted a copy of _The Daily Prophet_ up, dangling it in front of the two. "I would have thought you'd want to stay and make even more of a scene." He flung the paper to the ground, mouth still open in a snarl. Despite his lounging position, Harry shrunk away, barely daring to eye the large, moving picture on the front page.

It depicted Harry dragging Remus away from the stunned crowd, eyes flashing with anger and what appeared to be tears.

_**Boy-Who-Lived Defends Monsters**_

The text was humongous, taking up almost as much room as the photograph. Another, much smaller picture of Harry was off to the side, showing him waving a wand about inside Ollivander's, a frown on his face as he shook it again and again in frustration. A line of text below that detailed the specifications of his wand, including speculations as to what each component meant.

Harry groaned and hid his face in Tyr's leather jacket.

"You did want him to change public opinion of werewolves," Tyr reminded the alpha cautiously.

"I also didn't want the boy to draw too much attention to himself. The last thing we need is an investigation into his whereabouts. Or have you forgotten that he's not supposed to be living here? If that blasted Headmaster catches wind of the fact that he's away from those Muggles, if anyone guesses that he's been bitten..."

"I'm sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry!" Harry babbled, dropping to the ground and rolling onto his back. He arched upwards in the air, head thrown backwards, throat and belly completely exposed in a submissive position that he had never used before. He was crying, and his trainers were digging into the dirt, but he didn't care, because he was a _failure_ and Fenrir would hate him forever, and the Dursleys were right, that he was nothing.

"He's just a boy!" Tyr said, but Harry barely heard him. He collapsed onto the ground, crushing a few yellow carnations that grew among the weeds. He whimpered, not aware of the sticky sap coating his face as he shook his head from side to side, sobbing.

"Get up!" Fenrir commanded, the sharp tone in his voice mostly managing to mask the undercurrents of worry there. "Stop your sniveling!" Harry sniffed a bit more, swallowing loudly, but he obeyed. "Wizards hate us. You know that. I don't want you anywhere near the bastards. But since you've all gone over my head, and the pack's basically mutinied, you're going to Hogwarts. But you listen, and you listen well. You do anything to mess this up, and I will kill you, Dark Lord or no."

"Yes, Fenrir. But I... I failed."

"You didn't fail." Fenrir sounded faintly surprised. "Not yet, anyway. Now scat, before I decide you'd make a better breakfast. And as for you..." Fenrir rounded on Tyr, but Harry knew better than to stay. He ran into the forest.

* * *

Yggdrasil seemed even larger than it had the first time he'd seen the tree, and the snakes more numerous. Lord Voldemort had moved to possess yet another serpent, each one larger than the last. Harry privately wondered if there were to be any snakes big enough for him, soon. 

"_Hogwartsss..." _Lord Voldemort hissed, sounding vaguely reminiscent. _"You will do well there, Harry Potter."_ Harry nodded, and hoped he would be able to manage among all the wizards. If Voldemort said he would, it wasn't exactly a fond wish.

"_I don't want to go,"_ he admitted, knowing that Lord Voldemort knew this already, but also that he demanded honesty. _"I do not like the wizardsss."_

"_You are a wizard," _Voldemort chided, but his tongue flickered out to tickle Harry's cheek. _"But ssstill, they are, for the mossst part, idiotsss. I do not blame you. You will be a ssstranger among them, jussst asss I wasss. But you will be ssstronger asss well."_ The serpent slithered towards him, something wrapped in its tail. _"Perhapsss thisss will help you, Harry Potter." _A book was deposited in his lap, and Harry fingered the pages reverently. _"It isss a journal, nothing more. But I believe that you will find it a mossst sssympathetic friend..."_

* * *

Tyr stood behind Harry, a scratched hand pushing him towards the brick wall. Fenrir's livid purple bruises had yet to fade, but they were at least pale enough that the Muggles around them didn't stare too badly. Besides, they were too busy gawking at the empty sleeve of the leather jacket that hung at Tyr's side. 

"You'll be fine, wereling. You've almost three weeks 'til you need to be worried, and I'm sure that Lupin will help you." Tyr seemed to be making an effort not to insult the professor too badly, for Harry's sake, but the undercurrent of malice was hardly hidden. "You'll be fine," he repeated, and thrust Harry into the brick wall.

He blinked at the scarlet steam engine in front of him. He wanted to turn around, to find Tyr and tell him that this wasn't really necessary, that he could just stay at Vanargand, but the crowd was pushing him forward. Before he knew it he and his trunk had been shoved onto the train and somehow shunted into a compartment. In it was a girl who looked to be about his own age with a bluebell tucked in her red plait of hair.

"Hello," he said nervously, stuffing his hands in his pockets for lack of anything better to do with him. "Mind if I sit here?"

"No, not at all," the girl replied with a smile, gesturing to the seat across from herself. "My name is Susan. What's yours?"

"Harry," he responded, stowing his trunk in the luggage rack without a grunt and sitting down stiffly on the velvet seat.

"Harry Potter?" she asked, voice curious.

"S'right," he muttered.

"It's a pleasure to meet you. I saw what you did, at Diagon Alley. It was in _The Daily Prophet_, you know." Harry grunted. "I think that was very kind of you, and I quite agree. It's terrible, the way that wizards treat werewolves and giants and such. You'd think that having magic, they'd have more respect for life, in whatever form it comes in."

Harry smiled then. "Thanks. That means a lot." He nearly told her then, but he held his tongue. Tyr had warned him that there were people who said they were all for pro-werewolf legislation and the like... until they were actually introduced to a werewolf.

"Not at all. I'm going to be a First Year, like you are. Are you excited?" Harry nodded; it seemed like the safest thing to do. Really, he felt faintly nauseated, but he didn't think he should start telling Susan that being around Wizards made him want to retch. Susan nodded, her grin widening. "Myself as well."

Neither of them said anything. Susan kept smiling, and Harry was surprised that he couldn't detect any hint of strain in the expression. She seemed genuinely happy, and not at all bothered by the awkward silence that stretched between them.

"You... er... do you... have an owl?"

"No. I don't think it fair to subjugate them like that. They're much happier out in the wild, in their natural habitat. They really are nocturnal, you know." Harry did. He also knew they were delicious. "It's not right to force them to swoop around in daylight. It goes against their natures. Live and let live."

Harry nodded vaguely. What were you supposed to say to that? Susan made him uncomfortable; he had the idea that despite her professions of supporting werewolves, she seemed to like other animals as well. He supposed that she wouldn't _quite_ support his eating habits during the full moon.

"Hello?" The door of the compartment was pushed open to reveal a slightly stout boy with too many freckles and an imperious tilt to his head. "Do you mind if I sit with you?" he asked as he made his way to the seat beside Harry. "Ernie Macmillan, it's a pleasure to meet you." He shook Harry's hand, then Susan's. "I'm ever so excited about Hogwarts, of course. I've heard it's just wonderful, simply wonderful." Harry wondered whether the boy needed to breathe or not. "And who are you?"

Susan introduced herself cheerily. "And he's Harry Potter," she added when Harry didn't speak.

"Are you really? Well, it's an honour to meet you. I've heard all about you of course, and I do hope that we can be friends." Harry just nodded mutely. Were all children like this, effusive and joyful and painfully formal? The two settled into an enthusiastic conversation about Hogwarts that grated on Harry's nerves.

"Thank Merlin I'll be in Slytherin," he muttered under his breath, settling back into the seat cushions. If he had to be bored, he might as well be comfortable.

* * *

"Oh, look, there it is!" Susan squealed as the small boat they were in glided underneath an overhang and out once more into the moonlight. The castle was magnificent, with towers that stretched to the stars and lights shining out of the Gothic stained glass windows. It felt odd though, as if it were to big, and too... uniform. An image of Vanargand rushed into his head, it's mixture of architectural styles and large windows filling him with a sudden, sharp pang. He didn't want to live in this cold, imposing castle with windows that were little more than arrow slits. 

This wasn't home. It felt _wrong_, as if he'd stumbled into a story in which he knew nothing about and wanted nothing to do with.

"It's absolutely gorgeous!" Susan gushed as their boat bumped gently against the dock. "Oh, I can't believe that we're going to live here! I do hope I'm in a tower; the view must be wonderful." Ernie offered her a hand as she stepped delicately out of the boat, and the three children followed the huge giant that was leading the small group of first years up a series of stone steps.

"Just a mo'," he assured them, turning away from them to pound a fist the larger than most of the students against a door that was so large three of him could have stood atop one another and still walked through without stooping.

Several of the other kids jumped at the noise, Harry noted with narrowed eyes. Why were they startled? It wasn't as if they couldn't have guessed, after all.

The doors opened of their own accord, revealing a small, strict woman. Every inch of her appearance spoke of self-discipline and order. Her robes were freshly pressed, falling to the ground in precisely arranged folds. Her hair, which was barely visible underneath a neat green velvet hat, was pulled sharply away from her forehead and gathered into what Harry assumed was a bun.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," she greeted them, gesturing for the group to follow her inside. "I will lead you into the Great Hall shortly, where you will each be Sorted into the appropriate House. Each House has their own strength, and I hope that you will be a credit to whichever one chooses you." She spun briskly on one heel, and, without so much as a single glance over her shoulder to insure that all of the First Years were following (they were, tripping nervously over their feet), she strode towards a pair of doors only slightly less impressive than the ones at the entrance had been.

She pushed these doors open, though it seemed to take absolutely no effort on her part, which was surprising given her size. _Magic,_ Harry thought with distaste. Wouldn't it be much simpler to just have a smaller door?

The students followed her, making their way between two of the long, _long_ tables. The older students, already seated, looked at them with a broad range of expressions, bored, disdainful, encouraging. Most of the disdainful glances were aimed at him. A few students held _The Daily Prophet_ in their hands, pointing at him and whispering. Were they still printing that story? Perhaps that had been the cause of Fenrir's anger throughout the month of August. But then why didn't he tell Harry about it, or at the very least scream at him for a bit?

Nervously, Harry moved to the back of the crowd as they reached the teacher's platform. Susan stayed at his side, smiling. Still smiling. Did she ever get mad, annoyed, disappointed? Was she ever human?

"I wonder how they will Sort us? No one will tell. It's a mystery."

But the mystery was soon solved as the professor from earlier placed an old hat down carefully on a rickety stool. Part of the brim opened in what he supposed was a mouth, but it just looked like a gigantic tear to him, and sang. Harry ignored the hat; he didn't like it. And besides, he knew where he would be Sorted anyway.

And if he didn't think about it, he wouldn't have to think of all those eyes staring at him as he sat upon the stool, as 'Abbot, Hannah' was doing now. All those people, more than he'd ever seen in his entire life. More than his primary school, more than he'd seen at one time in Diagon Alley, a hundred times more than were in the pack.

He gulped, his breath coming in short gasps. Everyone was looking at him, even the students who had turned back to their friends and started whispering. They were all looking at him! All those eyes, on his skin, searching, searching... He could feel his heartbeat, erratic and flighty. It pulsed through his wrists, his legs, his ears. Faster, faster, louder, louder, he was going to burst, the blood would come rushing out of his ears, his hands, his arms...

"Potter, Harry." He froze, the blood sounding one last, wailing cry. And then he was moving, stiffly, and sitting upon the stool, and closing his eyes as the Sorting Hat settled upon his head, covering his face down to his chin.

_If I can't see them, you can't see me!_ he thought desperately, gripping the sides of the stool tightly with his fingers so as not to pull the hat down even further.

**But I can see you.**

It was the Hat. The Sorting Hat. Which was_ talking_ in _his _head.

No_! Get out, get out! You can't find out! _He could feel the Hat chuckling on his head while it slowly picked through his mind, his memories. _Get out you bastard!_

**Mr. Potter, it is very important that I do the task that I was made for. For hundreds of years I have Sorted students, and you are no different. **

Harry tried to move his hands, to throw the Hat off his head and abandon the wizards to their own squabbles. But his fingers wouldn't unclench, his arms refused to move. _You can't find out-_

**That you're a werewolf? That you've spoken with Voldemort and lived under the roof of Fenrir Greyback?**

_You can't tell. I won't let you, I won't! I'll rip you to pieces before you can get so much as a word out! I'll give you over to Fenrir, I'll toss you to the Dark Lord, I'll-_

**Do no such thing. My purpose is to Sort you into the right House, nothing more. If I were to tell all the secrets that I find in childrens' minds, I would wear myself threadbare. And not all secrets are as dark as yours, Harry Potter. But there are some that are much, much darker. You would do well to remember that.**

**Now, as for your House... you've shown plenty of courage, and you learn quickly enough, but that's not what you are. You define yourself according to the roles others have placed before you. Voldemort, Fenrir, and most especially Tyr. You are not a Ravenclaw, nor a Gryffindor. No, no, I do believe that the House for you is-**

"**Hufflepuff!**"

And the hat was ripped away, and the eyes really _were_ all staring at him now. No one clapped, or cheered, as they had for all the other children. Harry sat frozen on the stool, hands still gripping it tightly. He was supposed to be in Slytherin, not Hufflepuff. He was supposed to be cool and cunning, not some dunderhead who didn't fit in anywhere else. Fenrir was going to kill him...

There was a bit of movement, just a flash, and Harry looked up through his fringe to see Susan standing, alone. She brought her hands together. Once. Twice. Thrice. She was still smiling, still clapping. Harry stood, and for a moment it was if only the two of them were there. He walked towards her, sitting down. She took her seat as well, still smiling. He grinned back, a genuine expression of pleasure. At least one person wouldn't hate him for this.

And then the scene broke, like someone smashing through a painting, destroying it utterly, ripping the calm canvas into shredded bits of misery.

"A _Hufflepuff_? A bloody Hufflepuff! And here I thought the Boy-Who-Lived would actually be worth something." Someone from across the Hall was laughing, and more joined him. He hadn't even been in school a whole day, and already he was a joke, a laughingstock!

Susan reached across the table, leaning forward slightly to do so, and grabbed his hand. "Look around, Harry. Every other House has their trait, their characteristic. And Hufflepuff does too."

"But I'm not supposed to be here," he told her, his voice barely more than a whisper. "They'll be so disappointed."

"Who, the other students, their families, the Ministry of Magic? I've heard what they say, Harry, that Hufflepuff is the House for the failures, the ones that don't have any courage or intelligence or ambition, the ones that don't fit in and aren't worth anything. And if that's what they think of them-of you, of us- then so be it."

"I don't give a flying fuh-" he raged, stopping at the collected expression on Susan's face. "You're a bloody robot or something," he finished. "Doesn't anything ever make you mad?"

Susan's lips never twitched, but her face changed. Suddenly, she looked distant, alone and slightly afraid. "Yes. But not this. Ignorance is something that should be corrected, not reviled." She turned her head towards the Sorting Hat once more, leaving Harry with a wrinkled nose and a furrowed brow.

"Robot," he accused under his breath.

* * *

A battered plastic flashlight was in his hand, and he dug through his trunk, hoping that none of the other boys would wake, that he wouldn't have to talk to them, that he could slip into his bed and pull the curtains shut and be _alone_. He shoved wadded robes and mismatched socks to the sides, searching for that journal that Voldemort had given them. He'd said it would be useful, and Harry could do with a bit of help at the moment. The human boys stank, all three of them, the smell of their sweat hardly even masked under a sickly sweet layer of deodorant. 

Finally, with a pile of Muggle comics perched reverentially on the squat nightstand (everything in the dorm was short) he tipped his head to one side in order to keep the flashlight in place, and clicked open his pen.

Dear Diary,

No, it's wasn't a diary, it was a journal. Diaries were for girls. Girls like Susan, except that she wasn't a girl, but rather a robot. Aliens, robots, and superheroes seemed likely enough to him, what with all this strange magic suddenly floating around, like the ghosts that had appeared midway through the feast.

Hello. That was better. My name is Harry Potter. I'm at Hogwarts, and I think wizards are idiots. He paused, debating on whether rereading _Captain Dredd_ would be more useful. His eyes flickered to the stack of comic books longingly. They reminded him of Tyr; surely that would be much more useful than a journal, even if Voldemort had said it was important. He looked at the page once more, ready to cross out his words and toss the book back into the bottom of his trunk. But his words weren't there.

Instead, they had been replaced.

**Hello Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle.**

* * *

Hellebore: Scandal

Yellow Carnation: Disappointment

Bluebell: Constancy


	5. Interlude: Timetable

A/N: As this story is AU, there are adjustments to the timetables, mostly by ignoring things that can be inferred from the books, such as classroom locations. If you notice anything glaringly off, please, feel free to let me know. An update should be coming soon; my mathematics class is taught as if to twelve year olds.

* * *

**Hogwarts Timetable**

Student: Potter, Harry

House: Hufflepuff

Year: First

**Mondays**

_7:00-8:00 AM_

Breakfast

Great Hall

_8:00-9:30 AM_

Herbology

Greenhouse One

Prof. Sprout

Gryffindor

_1__0:00-11:30 AM_

History of Magic

Second Floor

Prof. Binns

Slytherin

_12:00-1:00 PM_

Lunch

Great Hall

_1:00-3:30 PM_

Charms

First Floor

Prof. Flitwick

Slytherin

_3:30-5:30 PM_

Study Hall

Fourth Floor

_5:30-7:00 PM_

Dinner

Great Hall

_12:00-1:30 AM_

Astronomy

Astronomy Tower

Prof. Sinistra

All Houses

* * *

**Tuesdays**

_7:00-8:00 AM_

Breakfast

Great Hall

_8:00-9:30 AM_

Herbology

Greenhouse One

Prof. Sprout

Gryffindor

_9:30-10:30 AM_

Flying

Quidditch Pitch

Mdme. Hooch

Ravenclaw

_10:30 AM-12:00 PM_

Potions

Dungeons

Prof. Snape

Ravenclaw

_12:00-1:00 PM_

Lunch

Great Hall

_1:00-4:00 PM_

Transfiguration

Fifth Floor

Prof. McGonagall

Gryffindor

_4:00-5:30 PM_

Study Hall

Fourth Floor

_5:30-7:00 PM_

Dinner

Great Hall

* * *

**Wednesdays**

_7:00-8:00 AM_

Breakfast

Great Hall

_8:00-11:00 AM_

Def. Against the Dark Arts

Third Floor

Prof. Lupin

_11:00 AM-12:00 PM_

Study Hall

Fourth Floor

_12:00-1:00 PM_

Lunch

Great Hall

_1:00-2:30 PM_

Study Hall

Fourth Floor

_2:30-5:30 PM_

Charms

First Floor

Prof. Flitwick

Slytherin

_5:30-7:00 PM_

Dinner

Great Hall

_12:00-1:30 AM_

Astronomy

Astronomy Tower

Prof. Sinistra

All Houses

* * *

**Thursdays**

_7:00-8:00 AM_

Breakfast

Great Hall

_8:00-11:00 AM_

Potions

Dungeons

Prof. Snape

Ravenclaw

_11:00 AM-12-00 PM_

Study Hall

Fourth Floor

_12:00-1:00 PM_

Lunch

Great Hall

_1:00-4:00 PM_

History of Matgic

Second Floor

Prof. Binns

Slytherin

_4:00-5:30 PM_

Transfiguration

Fifth Floor

Prof. McGonagall

Gryffindor

_5:30-7:00 PM_

Dinner

Great Hall

* * *

**Fridays**

_7:00-8:00 AM_

Breakfast

Great Hall

_8:00-9:30 AM_

Charms

First Floor

Prof. Flitwick

Slytherin

_10:00-11:30 AM_

Herbology

Greenhouse One

Prof. Sprout

Gryffindor

_12:00-1:00 PM_

Lunch

Great Hall

_1:00-2:30 PM_

Study Hall

Fourth Floor

_2:30-5:30 PM_

Def. Against the Dark Arts

Third Floor

Prof. Lupin

_5:30-7:00 PM_

Dinner

Great Hall


End file.
